


All the Company I Keep

by LydianNode



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Language, Mourning, mild panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-15 21:58:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18081668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: Brian is struggling to finish the final verse of "Mother Love."It's his voice, but the words are Freddie's. Brian remembers reading the lyrics over Freddie's thin shoulder and shuddering to think of just how much pain he must have been enduring to have given even this little glimpse into his declining days.And the tears come afresh.





	All the Company I Keep

1995, Mountain Studios  
 

"You're up."

Brian has been dreading those two words since he arrived in Montreux earlier in the week. They've had a few productive days, and of course it is such a comfort to be with John and Roger again, but the task has proven to be bittersweet. They are here to sort through and complete the recordings Freddie had made for them. Brian adds some guitar here, some backing vocals there, listening and nodding as John and Roger tighten up rhythm tracks. All of these are tasks that Brian can handle even in his fragile psychological state.

They've all been emotional. How could they not, hearing Freddie's voice wandering ghostlike around the studio? The first time they had listened to "It's a Beautiful Day" from the Munich sessions, John broke down completely, Roger following suit later as "Heaven for Everyone" played through his headphones whilst he was softly drumming. Brian has been attempting to keep his composure. It's not because he's afraid to be seen weeping in front of his friends, but because he knows they're afraid of what he'll do afterwards.

Brian would like to tell them that he'll be fine, but he's the world's worst liar and the others can see straight through him.

Today it's time for Brian to finish the last song he and Freddie had written together. The guitar part is already done, meeting even with John's finicky approval. Brian can play guitar under any circumstances, physical or mental, and the tune had flowed freely under his hands. That's not the unfinished part, the part that makes tears prickle in Brian's eyes just thinking about it.

It's the last verse.

Shaking his head nervously, Brian walks out into the studio and waits as a tech adjusts the pop filter. He fits his headphones over his ears, through the veil of hair, despite the tremor in his fingers. There's nothing to do with his hands. That's the problem with singing, or so he tells himself as he fidgets in place until the speaker comes alive and he hears David's voice. "How far do you want to rewind the playback?"

Brian considers that for a moment. He'd prefer to start with the guitar part rather than hear Freddie's voice, but he needs to match...oh, who is he kidding? He could never match the theatricality or power of Freddie's voice, not even on his best day, so why is he standing here as if that could even remotely be possible?

Through the control room window he can clearly see John and Roger discussing something. Roger presses the intercom button and asks, "Do you want to come in here and have another listen, first?"

"No. It's probably better to just get on with it, but thanks." Brian tries to muster up a smile and it clearly fails because Roger rolls his eyes and John shakes his head. "Wherever you start is fine," Brian says, hoping to still his jangling nerves by getting something, anything, accomplished.

"'Mother Love,' Brian's verse, take one," David announces, then suddenly Freddie is singing into his ears, reverberating through the bones in his head and all around him.  
  
"You're gonna give me all your sweet  
Mother love, aha...mother love...."

Brian remembers what happened next.

_"_ _I’m not feeling that great, I think I should call it a day now. I’ll finish it when I come back, next time."  
_

_Oh fuck.  
_

Brian's attempt to inhale goes very wrong and leaves him coughing and sputtering, leaning over with his hands on his thighs. He knows they're aborting the take even before he hears John's voice over the intercom. "Do you need some water?"

It's shorthand for _are you okay or do you need to stop?_ , but Brian's proud, stubborn streak won't let him back away from the microphone. He shakes his head as he clears his throat. "I've got it, let's move on and go again."

This time the tape starts, mercifully, on the guitar interlude Brian recorded yesterday. He takes a deep breath from the diaphragm and puts his shoulders back to open up his chest. He can do this, he can absolutely do this. On cue, he lets himself start to sing.

"My body's aching, but I just can't sleep.  
My dreams are all the company I keep."

It's his voice, but the words are Freddie's. Brian remembers reading the lyrics over Freddie's thin shoulder and shuddering to think of just how much pain he must have been enduring to have given even this little glimpse into his declining days.

And the tears come afresh.

Brian rips the headphones off and hurls them to the floor. He leans against the smooth wall, shoulders shaking, and covers his face with his hands. The studio is eerily quiet apart from the sounds of his harsh breathing and a set of quick footsteps. There is a hand on his wrist, holding tightly, and a high, rough voice quietly says his name.

"Brian." Roger's hand tugs downward so Brian lets gravity guide him to the floor, sitting cross-legged with his head tipped backward, eyes squeezed shut. He was breathing heavily before, but now he can't breathe at all. His father couldn't breathe, and Freddie couldn't breathe, and now it's his turn and he's going to die. He deserves to die. Wants to die, longs for it. He lets out a sound somewhere between choking and gasping. Roger pats him on the back, gently, and leans close enough to whisper in his ear. "Try and breathe with me, Bri, slowly, that's it. You're okay, you're okay."

The first hit of oxygen is cool and sweet, filling Brian's lungs. He holds the air inside as if he could breathe in something of Freddie and keep him there. Next to his heart, which is pounding. He forces himself to open his eyes, but the sight of Roger's worried expression makes him want to close them again. Forever.

"We can do another take later," Roger says softly enough that the mic won't pick up their conversation and send it into the control booth.

Shame sends a rush of blood to Brian's face, heating his cheeks and making him perspire, his hair sticking messily to his forehead. "No, I've got this."

"I don't actually think that you do, darling," Roger coos in a _sotto-voce_ imitation of their departed friend. Brian shivers; he'd forgotten what a good ear Roger has, what a good mimic he can be.

"Don't, Rog." He feels Roger stiffen next to him and puts a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I know you're trying to help."

The intercom crackles and John's voice fills the studio, dark and even. "Want to call it a day and try again tomorrow?"

Brian would rather call it a life and not try again, full stop.

He looks at his hands and tries to conjure up all the coping strategies he learned in the American clinic. It's all a blank now. He's been biting his nails and the skin around them is cracked, one cuticle definitely looking infected. He pokes at it, relishing the pain. It's not a good feeling in itself, but being able to feel anything at all is an improvement.

He can also feel warmth radiating from Roger, whose internal thermostat seems to run high all the time. His manic energy is subdued these days, unsurprisingly, and Brian feels empathy for the magnitude of Roger's pain. He swallows, wishing he had some alcohol to numb the lump in his throat, and unfolds his legs so he can stand up.

Roger steadies him, smiling his encouragement. Freddie used to do that, but Freddie's not here anymore. It's Brian's fault. He got tied up in his own drama and didn't look after Freddie carefully enough, didn't treasure him enough, and now he's gone forever.

"There wasn't anything you could've done," Roger declares. Brian glances at him in open-mouthed shock, and Roger shrugs. "I'm not psychic. I've had the same thoughts with that same look on my face. So has Deacy. We can't do anything for him now, except this." He waves around the studio.

"I want to," Brian mumbles, then he speaks clearly into the microphone. "I want to finish. I just..." He trails off, looking around as if he could find Freddie, but all he can see is Roger's worried frown and a vast, terrifying emptiness where his friend used to be. "How did he DO it? He was so sick, but you'd never know it from how he sounded. There's not a fucking thing wrong with me, and still I can't get out a phrase without going all to pieces!" _  
_

_A glass of vodka, tossed back down a throat that looked too frail to swallow. A voice that was on the edge of dissolving into nothing: "I'll fucking do it, darling." A single take, a single, brilliant take later, and Freddie had given the world his swan song.  
_

_The Show Must Go On.  
_

John is standing in front of him now. Brian didn't hear him come into the studio, but now John is so close that Brian can see the lines on his face, etched there by watchful sorrow. John had gone grey at the temples years ago, when Freddie first began to show signs of his illness, and now the youngest member of their band appears prematurely, shockingly, aged.

"I have an idea," John says firmly but soothingly. It's his father-of-six voice, the one that's a command tempered with tender concern. "Come back to the control room with me."

Brian follows, Roger close by, and he steps back into the control room. David is mucking about with some wires as a tech brings the microphone in from the studio. Confused, Brian blinks a few times and peers at John.

"This is how Freddie did it, remember?" John asks. He guides Brian over to the console, helping him to perch on an empty spot. "He'd just sit here and sing. Nothing complicated about that. We all sat around and watched him - and now we'll do that for you."

John's hands are firm, strong from decades of playing bass for hours every day. They are a comfort as they clasp Brian's arms, grounding him, reminding him that he isn't alone in this endeavour. Brian looks into John's grey-green eyes, as soft as he's ever seen them, and John nods sadly back at him. "I know, Brian. I KNOW." John's fingers tighten as he blinks back misty tears. "Freddie was my voice."

"Deacy...oh God..." Brian leans over and rests his forehead against John's. "Of course, I'm so sorry, I can't possibly replace—"

"No, you berk," John says, exasperation and affection warring in his tone. "You're going to be HIS voice. Even if you have to do one line at a time, you're going to do what I only wish I could - sing Freddie's last song FOR him."

As Brian tries to digest John's heartfelt words, he feels David come up next to him. There's a blanket in his hands, a red velveteen one Brian remembers from the days when Freddie always felt so, so cold. "It's been in a cupboard...well, since," David says quickly. "No one had the heart to toss it. Here." He hands it off to Roger, who wraps the soft fleece around Brian's shoulders and pins it in place with an alligator clip.

Roger hugs him from behind, resting his head on Brian's shoulder and sniffing. "I think it still smells like him, don't you?" Brian inhales, every nerve in his body alight as he picks up the scents of brilliantine and vodka and something that was Freddie, like home, like love.

David brings him a glass of room-temperature water and Brian drinks it slowly, aware of how it feels in the back of his dry throat. When he feels hydrated and brave enough, he puts the glass back down again and says, "I'm ready, let's get on with it."

_I'll fucking do it, darling._

David adjusts the microphone until it's level with Brian's lips, then steps back and takes his seat at the controls. He doesn't ask, just rewinds the tape and waits for Brian's signal.

Roger slips his fingers through Brian's and holds onto his hand. John, tears glistening in his eyes but not falling, smiles at them both.

Brian nods, closing his eyes as he hears the introduction to the final verse.

_I'll fucking do it for you, Freddie darling.  
_

"My body's aching, but I just can't sleep.  
My dreams are all the company I keep.  
Got such a feeling as the sun goes down -  
I'm coming home to my sweet  
Mother Love." _  
_

His mind is a blur when he finishes. He's out of breath, heart hammering, and he feels his hand trembling in Roger's grasp. Past the blood rushing in his head, he hears John's dark whisper: "Fucking amazing."

Brian turns to David, eyebrows raised. "Is it okay?" he asks, sounding winded and small.

"Perfect. Got it in one. I'll tinker with it tonight and you can listen back tomorrow." David is never effusive, so even these few words carry tremendous weight even as a different kind of weight is lifted from Brian's shoulders. All that's left on him now is Freddie's old blanket. Roger makes a move to take it off but Brian shakes his head.

Gingerly he gets up and pulls the blanket tighter around himself. "I need some air."

"And some food," John puts in. "I've been given a mission: Ronnie said that if you haven't put on five pounds by the time we get back, she's going to force-feed you kopytka."

Brian's stomach rumbles at the thought of the little potato dumplings.

Roger is already halfway out the door before Brian can make a verbal response. John and Brian take their cue and follow him out of the building and down to a sidewalk café. They order champagne as they peruse the menu, occasionally peering past the bill of fare to Lake Geneva as the sun begins to set.

Next year there will be a statue of Freddie not far from where they are about to have dinner. Brian isn't sure how he feels about it, but he has to admit that the sculptor's design is fantastic. John catches his eye and grimaces - he has a variety of opinions about everything to do with Freddie's legacy - but instead of complaining, he opens the champagne bottle and pours out four glasses. It's a little ritual they've adopted over the last four years, on the rarer and rarer occasions that they spend time together.

Roger and John look to Brian to make the toast. He lifts his glass. "To Freddie. I hope we've done you proud, darling."

"To Freddie!" chorus the others, and each man takes a contemplative sip. Roger cocks his head to one side. "You're thinking pretty hard, mate - what's it about?"

"The last thing he recorded was the word 'love,'" muses Brian.

That's their Freddie, down to the very heart.

A brisk evening breeze blows past that makes John shiver, so Brian opens an arm to let him get under the blanket. Roger whines discontentedly, grinning, and cuddles up on Brian's other side. They stay like that even when food arrives and their elbows keep colliding. Roger steals food from John's plate, John reminds Brian to eat, and Brian finally feels a peace he hasn't known for five years. He's so grateful that he wishes he could keep the three of them - all his company - under Freddie's blanket forever.

It's a cold world out there, but Freddie will keep them warm.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Of the many, many sad songs recorded in the last year of Freddie's life, this is the one that reduces me to tears every time. So much respect to Brian for doing something that must have been incredibly painful.
> 
> With many thanks to @royaltyisshe64 for the hand-holding and cheerleading, and for making me watch fun things once in a while so I didn't wallow TOO much in the angst.
> 
> ***  
> I have a tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lydiannode - come talk to me!


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